


It Might Have Been

by Chronicler



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, British Character, British English, British Slang, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Character(s) of Color, Closeted, Family, Female Character of Color, Female Queer Character, First Love, Future Fic, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Grief/Mourning, I Made Myself Cry, I made a banner too, Loss, M/M, Near Future, Original Character(s), Pansexual Character, Past Relationship(s), Queer Character, Queer Themes, Reminiscing, Secret Relationship, Shock, Some Humor, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:18:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2451017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronicler/pseuds/Chronicler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Half a century from now, Zayn is shocked to learn of the death of his first love, and he tells his teenage granddaughter about the one that got away…</p><p>I can't deny that this is a sad story, but it's also about a love that never ends. And family. And life: how it goes on, even when we think it won't ‒ even when we think it shouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Might Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Catrina, Mayra, Vanessa, Brittany and Lynn for beta reading. 
> 
> Bea if you read this, I hope that you enjoy it! Enjoy may be the wrong word... And I'm sorry I locked my stories for a while. I had reasons.
> 
> Constructive criticism would be gratefully received.
> 
> I don't know who owns the pictures in my banner, other than 'The Persistence Of Memory' by Salvador Dalí. The quote in the story is slightly misquoted from the film 'I Never Sang For My Father', by Robert Anderson.
> 
> I like having a theme song for my stories, so here's Judy Garland singing, 'The One That Got Away', music by Harold Arlen and lyrics by Ira Gershwin. ~ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ooeuybwJAsE
> 
> ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_For of all sad words of tongue or pen,_  
_The saddest are these: "It might have been!"_

_~ John Greenleaf Whittier_

~*~

Zayn was sitting in a cushioned wicker chair in his large, well-tended garden watching the sunset. The sky was on fire with reds and purples, clouds slowly drifting through it like islands in an alien sea. But his thoughts were a million miles away; the further the past moved in time, the more he felt its presence. His vague reminiscences were interrupted by a voice emerging from the conservatory behind him, though he didn’t quite catch what she said. “What was that, Zainab?” he called, without looking away from the impressive view across the horizon.

“I said, ‘One Direction; isn’t that the name of the band you were in once, grandad?’ And I know you don’t like it, but you should wear your hearing aid, or better yet, get one implanted,” she said, raising her voice as she emerged through the French doors onto the patio.

He dismissed her suggestion with a wave of his hand – tanned but frail, the veins prominent across the back. That was a name he hadn’t heard in a while. “Yeah,” he said, his brow creasing as he looked at her, following her with his eyes as she took a seat next to him. The hazel of his pupils were not as bright as they used to be, his sight not as clear, but his mind was still sharp. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, one of the other members has died. I just saw it on the holoscreen in the lounge.”

“Who?” He suddenly found it hard to breathe.

“Liam James something…”

His mouth filled with saliva and he swallowed. “… Payne.” The iced tea in his other hand slipped from his fingers and crashed against the paving stones as he said it, but he didn’t notice. He put all his weight on the arm of the chair as he pushed himself up to his feet. It fell backwards as he stumbled away.

“Grandad? _Dada?_ Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t –” She tried to reach out to steady him, but he pushed her away, gently but firmly. Not hearing the rest of her words, he headed into the house and to his bedroom down the hall.

He called up the news then found what he was looking for with a brush of his hand through the air; the hologram streaming to life in front of him told him that Liam had indeed died that day. A heart attack. His heart – it always did work too hard. He’d always had health problems – was born dead apparently. Though, Zayn had suspected he sometimes exaggerated, but he’d still done well to last as long as he did. That was an icily cold comfort. It had at least been quick when it finally happened, if the broadcast was to be believed. It was far from the most popular story; so much was going on in the world, as always, but some people remembered, craved the nostalgia, though they hadn’t really known him.

There were messages waiting for him, and more arrived as he stood there in shock. They were mostly from old names, appearing like ghosts to mourn one of their own. He would deal with them later. His aversion to responding to the constant flood of demands from other people had only gotten worse as technology had made it even harder to avoid them. There were questions from the media too, requests for comments that he would never answer.

He should call someone, but he wasn’t even sure who anymore. Everyone from those days had drifted to different parts of the world, scattered on the wind – his bandmates and their crew, colleagues and friends. There had been no big falling-outs between them, not even between himself and Liam, they had simply all drifted inexorably apart. Though, were Zayn being honest, it had become too painful to watch Liam create a life that he wasn’t at the centre of.

Harry had been the first to die from their core gang of five; too young – though he always had burnt the brightest, and he’d just burnt out. But, although Liam had liked to pretend he was their brain, he had really always been their heart, and Zayn supposed they would all follow him now, including himself, like a row of dominoes. He heard from the rest occasionally, sometimes a message on his birthday and holidays, sometimes even a gift, though less and less as the years passed and they all gained new priorities.

Would he even be invited to the funeral? Perhaps. He might even go. Though, the press would probably turn up, for old time’s sake, so he might not. He didn’t miss being in the exposing, judgmental glare of the limelight. That part of his life was long gone, or had been at least. The past always catches up with one in the end.

It hit him again and he sat heavily on the edge of his bed. Liam was dead. He’d never see that smile again, the way the skin would crinkle by his eyes in giddy excitement until they almost closed entirely. He felt the wet warmth of tears down the still-taut skin of his cheeks before he even knew that he was crying.

Curling up on top of the soft white quilt, he let the tears come. A tight pain clawed at his chest, constricting, consuming him. As he mourned for what was, for what had never happened, and for what will never be. Grieving the loss of someone that he had lost a long time ago.

His body shook with sobs as the grief hit him in waves that ebbed and flowed, threatening to drown him as it crashed against him then receded, leaving behind the bitter taste of salt water.

A small hand knocked quietly on his door, unusually timidly for her, her voice faltering as she called, “Can I come in?” through the solid wood.

“Just a minute!” He replied, sitting up and gingerly swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet resting against the wooden boards of the floor. Harshly, he brushed the tears from his face with the heels of his hands as he composed himself, feeling like an old fool. “Alright – come in.”

“I’m so sorry!” She babbled as she came through the door. “I had no idea. I wouldn’t have broken it to you like that if I’d known, I –”

“I know you wouldn’t have; it’s okay.” He stopped her flow of contrite words and gestured for her to come over and sit next to him on the bed. He put his arm around her shoulder, so sleight and trembling a little. Only fifteen, but so like himself at that age. All nervous energy and dreams.

“You loved him?” She asked.

The question shook him. It had been so long. “Yeah,” he said with a nod, his tongue snaking out to moisten his parchment-dry lips, “I loved him very much.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, guileless and eager to help.

Did he? He hadn’t in years. But he supposed it was time. “Just give me a few minutes and I’ll join you in the kitchen.”

She nodded and kissed him on the cheek, before leaving and quietly closing the door behind herself.

Going into his bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water to stop his bloodshot eyes swelling from the tears, then dried himself off with a fluffy white towel. He glanced at himself in the mirror over the sink before he left; it was still hard to think of himself as old, though he could see that he was. If he felt it, it might be easier. But he still felt the same as he had back when he and Liam met. Time had graced him with a certain gravitas at least, there was a dignity to the lines etched over his brow and by his eyes. His skin had a deeper, richer tone, his hair peppered with silver but still full. Always thin, it was finally tipping over into frail. He had lived hard, but well, and it showed.

All the rooms in the house branched off from the main hallway. The stairs had become too much to manage in his previous house, mansion really, and rather than suffer the indignity of installing a stairlift he’d had a spacious, state-of-the-art bungalow built. A mix of the modern and the traditional, it was all clean white lines, wood, and glass. Surrounded by countryside but close to the city; back in Yorkshire, his life having come a full circle. It had become so fast to travel between Bradford and the capital, there had seemed no reason to not move back – to have the best of both worlds, even though nothing was the same as it used to be.

When he got to the kitchen, Zainab was setting out two steaming mugs of tea to go with a plate of _zeera_ biscuits for them to share. He sat at the expensive, hand-carved, pine kitchen table. She rushed around, tidying up and telling him that she’d already cleaned up the glass outside; it was tiring just watching her – he remembered when he’d had that much energy. Though, he preferred not having to do anything anymore: lounging around, and sleeping as much as he liked. It was a relief when she stopped and sat across from him; and it was easier for him to follow conversations when he could watch someone’s expressions, see their lips move. He should deal with his hearing, he knew that, and he missed the clarity with which he used to hear music… but he could still feel it through to his bones, and he quite liked the excuse it gave him to zone out of conversations.

In a way he was reverting to his youth, allowing himself the luxury of not even trying anymore. Cutting himself off and luxuriating in his time alone. Spending what time he had left lost in contemplation, his art, reading all the books he’d never found the time to before, and of course his grandchildren; all the things that mattered most in the end. And if people saw him as a crotchety old man, well another benefit of old age was that he was long past caring what other people thought of him.

His hand shook as he picked up his mug and took a sip, wanting to reassure her, her worried eyes watching him intently. He missed having a cigarette to smoke at times like these, or something stronger; his hands remembered the comfort of it, his restless fingers looking for something to hold onto.

“I don't remember you ever talking about him before? Not with me, anyway.” She said, her voice tentative as she pushed her long black hair back over her shoulder, then rubbed her index finger nervously against her lower lip, comforting herself. He could see himself in her so clearly at times.

“I hadn’t seen him in years. I thought about it when your gran died," he winced as the memory of that painful time hit him, echoing this latest bereavement, "thought about running back to him. But I… I knew it was too late, really.”

“When you say that you loved him…?” She let her voice trail off, the implication obvious.

“Was I in love with him? Yeah. For years, when we were young. He was my first love.”

“Before gran?”

Zayn nodded.

“What went wrong?”

He shrugged. “It was just never the right time. And… he never loved me the way I needed him to.” He quickly added, “He did love me. Just… never enough. And you have to remember, we were famous, people kept telling us that it would ruin our careers if everyone found out.”

“Why?” she asked, leaning forward, looking enthralled at finding this new piece of the puzzle about her taciturn grandfather, her arms resting on the table and her drink forgotten.

“Because we were both men, boys really, and things were harder back then,” he explained gently.

“That’s awful.” Her genuine distress for the boy he had been came through in her voice.

“Yeah, it is. But it was a long time ago, half a century. Don’t upset yourself over it little one.” He reached across the table and briefly squeezed her hand.

“You were big stars, right?” She asked, finally remembering her drink and holding it in both hands as she drank. He'd never talked much about the old days with her; he tried to not look backwards too much. Tried.

“The biggest.” He allowed himself a smile as he reminisced. There used to be platinum records on his walls, and rows of awards in cabinets, from his time in the band and from afterwards. But they had been tucked away in storage during a previous move, and had somehow never emerged again. He knew where they were though, should she ever want to see them. They would go to her eventually anyway, and to his other grandchildren, after he and his children were gone. “But that was a different life. Hell, it was a few lifetimes ago. So much has happened since then.” And yet he suddenly felt he was back there, as though Liam might walk into the room any minute looking to whisk him away on a new adventure.

“So like, you broke up when the band split?”

“I don’t know that we were ever really together. I mean, I got him into bed a few times. I had him some other places too…”

“Grandad!” she laughed as she said it, her eyes going wide in shock, “I don’t need details!”

There was endless affection behind the mischievous sparkle that lit Zayn’s eyes as he gave her a sad smile. “I wasn’t going to give you any details; you’re not old enough anyway,” she rolled her eyes, “but he always left afterwards like it hadn’t happened…” his voice became sombre and trailed away.

“Well, he was crazy not to love you back,” when he opened his mouth to respond she quickly added, “to not love you the right way, I mean.”

“I dunno; we both had our own shi–… problems to deal with. In a way, he made it easier for me. I didn’t have to try and fight to be with him, because he wouldn’t fight for me.” His voice caught on the words and he swallowed a mouthful of sweet, milky tea and began to lay his residual anger to rest with the dead.

She looked unsure as she asked, “Did you love him more than gran?” as though it were a worrying possibility.

“... No,” he answered carefully; though he didn't really know the answer himself, especially in that moment with the loss still so raw. It felt like an unexpected amputation, ripping him open. “But you never forget your first love.”

She smiled knowingly at that, nodding, sympathy shining from her eyes. She had already found her first love, and thought that she would be with her forever. Bitter experience had taught him otherwise, but who was he to try and tell her any different? He was in his seventies and he still had no idea. He who was weeping for a seventeen year old boy with ridiculous straightened hair and the warmest brown eyes he’d ever seen, then or since. But love isn’t always enough, and she had time enough to find that out for herself.

“But, if you hadn’t seen him for years, I guess it won’t make any difference that he’s gone?” She absently picked up a biscuit and took a bite; he never could eat when he was upset.

Her words cut him like a knife, but he dampened down his reaction; he knew that she was just trying to help. He tried to explain, “I think I, like, half thought that one day we’d find each other again. But we never will now.” Another wave of grief hit him as it surged and receded. His face crumpled as he fought back more tears and pulled himself together. He hid behind his mug as he took a drink and let the last of the steam soothe his eyes which stung from unshed tears.

She was a smart girl, and could tell when she’d said the wrong thing. She quickly seemed to try and distract him by asking, “What did he look like?”

Zayn called up the holoscreen in the kitchen and selected an image from when he was young and wrapped up asleep in Liam’s arms, the three dimensional image achingly realistic. More rendered images followed, real enough to almost reach out and touch them: premieres, concerts, music videos, and private moments that no one else had ever seen. By the time the moving images flickered to life and he heard the heavy Black Country accent of Liam’s voice, he couldn’t take any more. The sound was dulled to him now, but he remembered, he remembered, and it was like a punch to his guts. He stopped the parade of lost opportunities.

“He was so handsome! And you were _beautiful_.” She smiled warmly as it ended, silently brushing a tear from her own cheek with the black cuff of her thinly woven jumper pulled down over her fist. The reality of it all finally seemed to hit her. That her grandfather had been young once and in love with someone that he just kept losing over and over like a stuck record, not that she’d know what that was. She pushed her chair back a little, the wooden feet grinding across the marble tiles, then pulled her feet up onto her chair and wrapped her arms around her knees.

“He was,” Zayn felt the old surge of pride as he said it. The five of them against the world; One Direction, it seemed almost silly now, but it had shaped his whole life. And it had always come down to him and Liam. Until it hadn’t anymore. Until it ended, and they all forged their own lives. For a moment he had to fight down nausea, feeling like he was in his twenties again and suddenly alone. Except this was almost worse, this was forever. He drank the last dregs of his almost cold tea.

He rarely even thought of those days anymore. He’d had other bonds before the band, and formed others afterwards. It had become just another memory, a phase in his life that was over, and not the most important one. But suddenly, out of nowhere, the past was too much with him, inescapable, and yet unreachable.

Her distress slid into a look of realisation, her smooth brow creasing. “But… if you had stayed together, then I’d probably never have been born, I guess…?”

“That’s true, isn’t it? So obviously everything worked out _exactly_ as it was meant to.” To comfort her he put more conviction into his words than he felt, and ended them with a hopefully reassuring, though tight-lipped smile. That seemed to satisfy her as she nodded and tried to smile back, only succeeding in looking young and lost in the grief buffering against her. He wouldn’t be without her for anything in the world, or the rest of the family he’d built for himself… And yet, a part of him still felt, would always feel, that maybe he could have had everything. If he’d only been braver, acted sooner. Or, perhaps more accurately, if Liam had. Though, even with no obstacles, Liam might never have given him what he needed. That thought hurt most of all.

As a young man he had believed in fate; he had since learned the horrifically random nature of life. But, either way, he would be naïve to believe that things couldn't have worked out differently if they had both wanted it badly enough.

A quote that had always stuck with him from an old movie, flitted into his conscious mind and took up residence there: "Death ends a life, but it doesn't end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor's mind towards some resolution it may never find." He had a terrible suspicion that may be true. Though, on the plus side, it meant Liam would always be with him, in his never-ending battle to understand and accept. It was, perhaps, better than nothing.

“Are there things you need to do?” She asked him, dragging him back to the present, the room almost visibly solidifying around him. She had already been touched by too much death in her young life. Her grandmother, then her mother. Her father, Zayn’s son, had left her with Zayn for the summer while he travelled, his job taking him over-seas. Though, in all honesty, he was off hiding from his own grief, and his daughter’s. The long, gently warm days of summer were drawing to a close, and there was no sign of his return. Zayn felt a twinge of guilt over exposing her to more loss, more pain. But such is life, and there was nowhere to hide from it. Though he almost missed the days back when he believed they would hopefully be reunited with their dead loved ones, after the judgment.

“Yeah, I’m sure there are things I’ll have to do. I’ll send condolences to his family in the morning – to his sisters and his children.” Maybe even his latest ex-wife. Though maybe not. He knew it was a time to rise above old wounds, let go of the bitterness. And yet, for a moment, he still felt it almost as keenly as ever; everything that had happened, all the people he had hated seeing Liam with so long ago. It had driven him out of his mind until he’d had violent outbursts where he only ever hurt himself. He’d never even met Liam’s later loves, but he still harboured a hidden resentment towards them. It was a relief that all his passions had cooled a little over the years. Perhaps he would send flowers to Liam’s family, though he wasn’t quite sure if that was the done thing anymore. “But don’t you worry about it, yeah? Time for you to go to bed, _beti jaan_ ,” he said as he realised where he was again and that she was waiting for him to speak.

She rushed around and helped him to his feet as he got up a little shakily, then he hustled her out of the room to go and get ready for bed. He put the plates and mugs into the dishwasher and instructed the house to turn off the lights, and close and lock the doors for the night. Just for a second, as he stood in the dimming light, he let himself imagine that things had been different – that in a few days he would be a widower again, standing by a grave, saying goodbye. But it wasn’t to be and he shook himself free of such foolishness. He made his way to bed too, stopping on the way to kiss his granddaughter goodnight, and tell her that he loved her. Knowing how important it is to say it, that we never know when it will be our last chance.

As he got into bed, his body aching, he felt old and tired in a way he never had before. The world seemed a colder, emptier place. With less to hold on to. He felt himself fading, the time ahead far less than the time that had gone before. But in the end, losses like this would make it easier to let go, when the time came. But one thing he had learnt, and learnt the hard way, is that life goes on, even when it shouldn’t. His life would go on without Liam, and one day Zainab’s life would go on without him. But not the same. Never the same again.

**_The end_ **

**Author's Note:**

> 'Dada' means Grandfather, 'Beti' is an affection term for a young girl, and 'Jaan' is an endearment that means life, all in Urdu. 'Zeera biscuits' are cumin seed biscuits.


End file.
